Love Me A Tragedy
by The Leaf 180
Summary: How ironic it seems, looking back, that it took a tragedy to bring them together again. Look for me in the sky, he wrote, remember what we shared before life killed me. The words seal his fate and Arthur clutches the letter, howls his regret as if his words could turn back time and revive his oldest friend. The night is silent and gray. Arthur looks, but he still sees nothing. FrUk


_How ironic it seems, looking back, that it took a tragedy to bring them together again. Look for me in the sky, he wrote, remember what we shared before life killed me. The words seal his fate and Arthur clutches the letter, howls his regret as if his words could turn back time and revive his oldest friend. The night is silent and gray. Arthur looks, but he still sees nothing. FrUk_

* * *

_Arthur-_

_It seems that were only together in the face of adversity_

_And_

_It seems you cannot rely on the man who was always by your side._

_All those years I supported you_

_All those years with no reply_

_And now you're off chasing rainbows_

_And I was here all this time, waiting, waiting..._

_Nothing but a man that wasted his days pinning away _

_And suddenly the future wasn't as bright as it was ten years ago_

Oh no no Nononono…. This isn't what he thinks it is. This isn't his fault.

_I'm tired_

_I'm cold_

_I'm being honest_

This isn't happening. Someone tell him it isn't real. Tell him he's dreaming. Wake him up. His eyes keep reading, his mind has grinded to a halt, reeling, stuttering, stalling. He forces himself to go on, he has to do it.

_The darkest days are spent by your side_

_And with you_

_They suddenly seem all the brighter_

_And the red dawn was shining_

_And we were together_

_And when I'm with you_

_We understand_

Oh God no…

_All you have for me now is poisonous words and sarcastic teasing_

_But_

_I can remember a time when the words you spoke were so gently and softly casted_

_That I could hardly believe they were all for me_

_That we might be something beyond_

_Whatever this is_

_Something in between_

_Love and hate_

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, his breath coming out in gasps as he fights the onslaught of tears. He lets out a choked sob, clamping his hand over his mouth, wanting to keel into himself and close his eyes, wish it all away…. Arthur was a fool. And he cries because this is all his fault. He is kneeling at his oldest friend's tombstone….

(And he knows why Francis has suffered)

_And suddenly you don't know how to treat me_

_And suddenly were spitting insults to ears that should be deaf from all the screaming _

_Hissing cruel words upon soft lips_

_That once murmured the phrases I now hold so dear_

Arthur killed him. He's a murderer. Did they really have to fight so much? Is this how Francis remembers him? His tears are spilling onto the page. How did this happen?

_Words spoken with malice, careful banter as to not cross an imaginary line_

_And an unraveling thread of fate rolling down your cheeks_

_And calloused hardly hands_

_So cautiously, they caress_

_So gently, they join_

_Your heart and mine_

Face cold and dead and expressionless- skin pale and stark against a faded white tuxedo. Hair dead and limp and his eyes are closed, they'll never open again. Arthur will never see them laugh; Arthur will never see them cry. He wishes for a closed casket funeral instead.

_A fragile dream shimming as I held my breath_

_As if I feared the wisps of breathe on a cold December morning_

_Could cause it to dissipate in the frosty atmosphere_

_Could chase away a bond so carefully crafted_

_A thought I hold close_

_Born on a rainy April morning_

_On that corner street cafe_

_On a day I still had hope_

Arthur dreams of him, roses in one hand, and a rope in the other. He holds them out for Arthur to choose as the words of his note repeat in the background, a haunting mantra he cannot shake. Francis's lips are parted and bloody, his eyes are icy and dead and he stares, because they both know Arthur is to blame.

And Arthur makes the wrong choice once again.

_On that day, I allowed myself to believe_

_If only for a little_

_That we could be something more than this_

_And I wanted to believe_

_That I could hold you again_

_To clutch a warmth so close_

_And never let it go_

A distant memory of a drunken steamy night when they both were young and foolish, before he knew the horrors of the world, before he had any humility to change his mind. Tangled sheets, sweaty limbs, and his eyes see only Francis- His dreams were sweet of honey and silk, and he wakes to a cold mattress and a note inviting him to breakfast.

And Arthur runs away.

_Bring us back to the day_

_Before we were enemies_

_Before there was hate_

_When I could stand tall_

_And never dream to fear a thing_

_When I did not know pain_

_And thought I never would have to_

Francis said nothing the next time they met; Arthur expects awkwardness and stolen glances, burning curiosity and hasty excuses. But Francis says nothing, And Arthur is relieved. Looking back, allowing Francis to return to an empty room without an explanation must have hurt him beyond belief.

Arthur was heartless. He took Francis for granted.

_Hands soft and hair clean_

_Skin unblemished and chests unmarred_

_By pain and rage and sadness_

_And nothing could touch us_

_And I was not afraid_

_Of anything_

_At all_

Alfred stays by his side throughout it all and while Arthur should be grateful, he can't stop thinking, he can't stop hearing the words in his head. (Oh, god why, how could I let this happen?)

He's guilty. He's tired. He wants to go home. He wants to wake up in February a week before Valentine's Day, think about Alfred, never get a phone call from Matthew, and never have to face this. He wants to go to the store and continue to forget about his childhood friend like he never mattered at all and he wants to buy cheap chocolates for Alfred and never spare anyone else a thought and never think of anyone but himself.

_Maybe if my agony was greater than my anger_

_Maybe if my enemy was bigger than my apathy_

_Maybe if I held on to a warm summer day spent beneath the trees_

_Before the child constructed weapons to kill_

_Before regret was a bloodied smear across my brow_

_I dreamt of a time we spent of mud paintings beneath the willow_

_And a child named Arthur_

_And a game called destiny_

_I was free_

_And I was happy_

_Because I was with you_

_And you were with me_

_Together_

Arthur is selfish. He doesn't want to wake up and have his heart slip away and come crashing down to the floor, he doesn't want Matthew's voice to bring him to his knees. He doesn't want to hear the words, face the onslaught of the damn memories, the frantic questions and choking horror and (Oh, my God, he's dead, rope for a necklace and soon he'll be six feet under and I had no idea, I was going to bed in a home but not so and Francis was tying a noose-)

And he doesn't want to have a sleepy Alfred jolted awake and, prying the phone from his grasp, pleading with Arthur to let it go because he's holding it like a lifeline and his knuckles are turning white and something's about to break. Alfred talks in a hushed, frantic tone, and maybe if Arthur closes his eyes and clamps his ears shut, he could shut it out and it'll all go away and none of this will be real. Like if he doesn't hear the words he'll never have to accept it and he can go back to a yesterday when he was happy and oblivious.

_And we were laughing_

_And when I stood beside you_

_I could not be defeated_

_And all at once, I was invincible_

_And all at once, I felt the rush of wind beneath my wings_

_The breathing of a patient and kind world who knew no sorrows_

_And there was nothing I would change_

_And here was nothing I could wish for_

_And I remembered how to sing!_

_And I felt like I was dancing_

And he doesn't want to curl up on the floor in Alfred's arms (I'll call you back Mattie) while his dearest friend has just ended his life, he doesn't want to cry and scream and howl in all of the grief in anguish he could muster. He doesn't want to shake and moan words unspoken like if he said them again and again maybe Francis would hear them and go on living.

(Francis is dead. Francis is dead.)

He doesn't want to screech and beg as if his pleas could go through time and Francis would be living and maybe they could have been happy once upon a time if he hadn't ran away. (Dead. Dead.) He can't breathe he can't think he can't, he can't.

(Francis. Francis.)

_And I felt like nothing could ever hurt me again_

_And nothing could break me_

_And all of my suffering_

_Would never take me_

_And I hope to never wake from this dreaming_

_If it allows me to hold on to the illusion that a past days' simple joy_

_Could be everlasting_

(Arthur look at me! It's going to be okay.) How could he do this? Why did no one stop him? Why wasn't Arthur there for him? Why didn't Arthur stay that one morning on the streets of Paris, and gone to breakfast. Maybe they would have started a life and maybe they could have been together and everything would have been alright. (What have I done?) Alfred is speaking but Arthur can't hear.

Francis had never forgotten, and in his note he begged Arthur to remember their days together. But Arthur was selfish. He forgot their legacy; he forgot their happiness, never guessing what it meant to Francis. How simplistic and yet precious, were the plans they made, and Arthur chose to let it all go. Arthur killed him. His hands are shaking and- no, he mustn't cry just yet.

_When it was just the two of us_

_And we didn't need anyone else_

_The days I remember make me now want to laugh and cry_

_Because I've forgotten how to dream_

_I've forgotten what was once my cherished gift_

_And I've forgotten what the sound of our laughter was like_

Alfred is saying that it isn't his fault but of course it is, Alfred doesn't know. Alfred doesn't understand how he caused all this; he never wanted anything like this to ever happen, not even in his darkest nightmares. Arthur opens his eyes and breaks the memory, rips it from his mind because it hurts to remember.

He lays his head against the gravestone (when had he fallen to his knees?) Felt the cool gray touch beneath his matted hair, sleepless eyes fogged with exhaustion. But how could he sleep with Francis's poetic dark words a haunting background to all of his thoughts? (Please forgive me.)

_The weeping memories; they are drowned in my misery_

_A small child's strangled cry as he is stolen from innocence_

_Never to return_

_Thrust upon a new age_

_Where his once friends look to cut him down_

_Where the only person he can trust_

_Is himself_

_And sometimes he isn't even spared that luxury_

(I'm sorry) He's choking, the air is choking him. His grief snakes cloying tendrils around his neck in a vice-like grip, and he lies (I haven't forgotten) and then he tells a truth (I won't forget. I'll never forget) and he wants to stay there forever, far past guilty and undeserving of forgiveness. The shame is a heavy shawl across his shoulders, his head feels like a pound of lead and oh, how could Francis do this? Couldn't he see? Arthur could have made him see, he had the chance, and he never took it.

_Before politics_

_We were carefree_

_And I believed that there was ever a time that existed_

_The times before fire and hate and death_

_Before spite was a word I knew too well_

_Before I knew only the taste of defeat_

_Before I failed and my conscious wavered_

_Before life killed my dreaming _

_I was so very much alive_

_And the great world was spinning_

_And we were together_

And he couldn't just get up and face Alfred back in the car, He couldn't go home and pretend that they would get past this and they would move on and there would be a dawn and a future and when he woke in the morning Francis would still be dead. He couldn't just look into his lover's subdued face and know, painfully so, that it was all Francis wanted was to be sitting there in his place, he had wanted it enough that the thought of living without it was worse than anything.

He had wanted it and Arthur was a thief; Arthur took his love away from him, brought it to America and made it his own. Arthur carefully folded the note into its original creasing, carefully stood, carefully reined in his composure (mustn't break again)

_And if you're not there_

_The world will keep on breathing_

_And if I'm not here_

_Maybe you would never find out_

_And live your life anyway_

_And if you're happy with him_

_Then that's enough for me_

There were so many people at the funeral. Had they all known him? Had they all done nothing? Had they all failed together, were they all blind and was Francis dead because of them all? How many people have suspected? How many people have tried? How many were ignored? No, it was Arthur's fault alone. It is his burden to carry.

Arthur feels like a fraud. He doesn't deserve to stand among Francis's friends and colleagues like he was one of them, it wasn't his sole fault that they had gathered to mourn the man that Arthur had killed.

_And I'd love me a tragedy_

_If that's what it takes_

_To make you see me again_

_To make your words transform from malice to a tender hum_

_Maybe then_

_The world wouldn't seem so cold_

_And the stars wouldn't seem so distant_

Gilbert and Antonio say some words. They tell animated stories and people laugh and people cry, but Arthur is empty and he wants to go home. Matthew had asked him if he would like to say a few things in his memory (Francis is now a memory. These people come here to prove that he even existed at all).

But Arthur is a coward and Arthur is a fool and how could he stand in front of all these people crying for the man he killed? He has nothing to say but he's sorry, but he knows that doesn't revive a man and that won't his suffering and Francis is still dead whether he's sorry or not.

_And I could be dancing through the night sky in a cloak of starlight_

_If you would look up and see me_

_And I could sing the most beautiful of melodies_

_If that meant that you would hear me_

_And I'd love me a tragedy_

_If that's what it took_

_And you'd see my devotion_

_If you looked hard enough_

Arthur leaves a rose and heartache under the wide expanse. He looks to the black abyss and tries to see Francis dancing, tries to see him painting a picture of all their history together and more, what could have been. But the twilight winks and says nothing. And there is nothing for Arthur to see.

_I could be screaming_

_Throat raw from begging and (Please listen to me!)_

_I could be bleeding (Please!)_

_Carving a message into the walls with brittle nails scraped off_

_Please don't leave_

_Remember our lore_

_Remember my voice_

_I am your oldest friend_

The days are gray and frigid. The nights are lonely, he spends them looking for Francis in the sky. And he remembers every miniscule detail. Arthur mourns, Arthur laments, but he never moves on. He speaks to the sky and imagines Francis speaking back. Alfred is kind and patient like Arthur knew he would.

But he stares into the dark and sees only a pair of dead eyes gazing back every night, and he listens (too late now) but he cannot hear. And his guilt is a heavy arm around his nape, dragging him under. His anger a choking weight on his chest as he struggles to take a breath because Francis is dead and that's all he knows now.

And Arthur searches, but he still sees nothing. And Arthur prays, but he still hears nothing. And Arthur regrets, but it still means nothing. And Arthur remembers, but it is too late to mean anything.

_And I'm crying and crying_

_But you pay me no heed_

_I'm your oldest friend_

_And that means nothing to you_

_Because you left _

_And you said nothing to me_

_No goodbye_

_Like I never meant anything to you at all_

_And all of our days together were days wasted_

_Like it never even mattered._

Arthur feels empty. He stares at old pictures hidden away in the attic for the first time in years and he feels a pain in his chest like no other. His tears are spent and he looks into his scowl from a time when he had nothing to be sad about because Francis was beside him.

He looks into the frozen eyes of a man he abused and gave him loveless life he didn't deserve, looks into those cobalt eyes full of life and longing. He gazes into a dead man's eyes and the ghosts on the pages don't let him rest. Arthur is breaking; Francis's picture smiles back at him.

_Did I ever cross your mind?_

_Did you feel anything at all?_

_Were we nothing?_

_Was I nothing to you?_

_You forgot the man who wanted to spend his days growing old with you_

_You forgot the man you left behind in the dust_

_And you forgot me_

_And that alone is killing me._

_You're killing me, Arthur dear._

_This tough old man can't take much more._

A pill bottle is missing from its spot on the shelf. Doors are locked. He has a few short words written. He traces the colors spiraling in his field of vision, feels a light pain in his head, he can't feel his legs, and he can't feel his heart. The room is spinning and he's floating until he feels nothing at all…

Infinity.

_Because you didn't care enough to remember_

_Did you ever care at all?_

_Was I imagining your friendship?_

_Was I imagining our childhood?_

_No. It was real._

_But you still said nothing _

Francis's poem is in his hand, a rose in the other, an empty pill bottle cast askew. And Alfred weeps for his lost future and weakly hopes they're happy together at last. And he looks to the night sky in remembrance and they stars are laughing at his misery.

And then he calls Matt.

Alfred feel cold in a house much too large for one man alone, feels the chill of the night and a dead man in the room beside him. Ghosts are hissing and spitting and Alfred has a headache. Matthew picks up and Alfred realizes that he has nothing to say.

(Dead.)

_And unless you need me_

_Unless there's a tragedy_

_I will always mean nothing to you_

_Nothing_

_At_

_All_

It seems that Francis' goodbye became a prophecy. It took a tragedy to bring them together again. Alfred wishes that this wasn't how it was. He wishes for a different life on a different day before a tragedy killed a man and took another down with him. He runs out of stories and the brothers sit in silence, reminiscing only took up so much time, talking has always taken his mind away from things.

Down on the grass with Matthew at his side and lays down flowers on both of their graves, and the cruel world keeps on spinning. He wishes he could find something to say, but there's a lump in his throat and he hangs his head, shoulders trembling. Matthew places a hesitant hand on his and its enough. With Mathew beside him, the memories are not lost.

_- Love Always, _

_Francis  
_

"Happy birthday" Alfred rasps, leaning down to kiss the headstone and pretending to recall a time before it all fell apart before him. Matthew sighs and the dusk is blue and silent at last.

Alfred crying for his lover, Matthew is crying for a brother, and the stars dance above their heads.


End file.
